Negative Space
by HollywoodGirl15
Summary: NHL FICTION TORONTO MAPLELEAFS: JOFFREY LUPUL.  The negative has become the positive, and the chemicals can no longer burn you out of the photographs.


_So this is different than I normally do, but I finally found an NHL section on here. I hope you guys will adore this like I do, and I hope to hear comments. Comments really make it worth while, and I've always had the best luck here. **I don't own anything but the plot, and if you have to Google then the characters aren't owned.**_

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><p>To be unknown and to have a fresh start in life is the greatest thrill anyone can witness. Between love interest, mistakes in high school, and desperate friends who are now drug addicts, there's nothing more fitting than a fresh start away from everyone that tries to hold you hostage to your past. Your past is but a misfit, a desperate being that kills you slowly, a sweet poison entering your veins. Of course at the time you don't realize it; everything from that time is a complete blur, fathomed by your denounced faith to youth. But when the smoke clears, and you're left with nothing but their pitiful jeers as they turn their backs to you. You're left alone, dying for a change, dying for a feeling that you've never experienced before in your life.<p>

Being unknown was something I had never considered; I enjoyed my identity and enjoyed what it brought me in the locker room and away from the ice. I had the connections I needed in order to make something out of my career path, and I had the luxurious apartment that people dream of when they're playing with Barbies.

Photography provided me with chemical reactions that I couldn't describe completely most days. I couldn't tell you how the photos were made in careful detail, nor could I tell you how such a simple thing could make you feel powerful. There were little cracks in worn, old photos that had long since turned yellow that made my heart clench, and gave my eyes a delightful treat that nothing else could begin to do. Every scratch, chemical, flash bulb, and lens sent everything in my mind on a whirlwind of pent up energy, waiting to get out and become a creative art form that trembled through a desperate heart. When I picked my major I didn't think it'd be something that I stuck with, but towards the end of high school it seemed to be the only thing that made any sense.

Buffalo was the only place I had ever known; it was that place that held memories that were both good and bad. The fresh scent of the ice in the arena was something I had adored, had gotten used to and millions of practice shots over the years completely lit up my portfolio that started to build due to my subconscious effort to save all of the memories. Every player that had ever danced in front of my vision was safely tucked away in a leather bound black book, the pages lighting up with key moments and faces dumbly caught when the other was no longer looking. The camera was trained well, and with a steady hand my portfolio slowly soared into the right hands.

He had been the reason I had stayed in Buffalo for so long; given it was his rookie season and I was a rookie all the same, we had clicked easily. The best photos I had ever gotten were made up of his dumb faces; his mouth guard sticking out or his water dumbly washing across his face. He always gave me that snarky smile afterwards, as if to say that he had gotten me, and that he had become a part of my life I didn't let anyone touch. But he was adorable all the same, and the friendship easily gave me a claim in the locker room and relationships with the guys.

I had built up a name for myself, had thrown fabulous bashes at the luxurious apartment that their girlfriends viewed in envy. His smile always transfixed my mind, always trembled through our loose lips whenever alcohol was involved. That affair lasted exactly two years, seven days, four hours, and twenty-three seconds. It was taken away in the brush of our lips as his phone rang in his pocket, the fleeting distraction driving him nuts as my fingers nimbly worked their way along his belt.

But that was then, and now I was living in a post trade haze. The team slowly began their distance, their accusing gazes staring at me for no real reason. The parties became less, as well as the opportunity to shoot the Sabres. Slowly the apartment became more expensive, and slowly I had sucked up my pride and called him for the first time in two years.

Freshly fallen snow crunched underneath the weight of boots, locals running through the streets as if they had skates on. Ice coated every inch of the frozen land, so much different from the home that I had once known. It wasn't as if I had never felt the crunch of snow beneath my boots before, but something about this snow felt different, much colder than that of what I was used to. More locals skidded past me with papers in their hands, desperate to get to their jobs as the traffic backed up for a mile. My boots carried me faster away from the scene of the crime, not wanting to wait around for a traffic accident to happen.

The Centre was bigger than I had remembered it previously; everything seemed much bigger and renewed in the situation that seemed to drive me nuts. But I couldn't step away from it, my eyes glued to the impressive exterior that loomed before me. A horn honked in the distance, willing me to move on and to shatter outside of my normal complex, but my boots were snowed in. The parking lot next to me was full of life, cars pulling in and out to get to their next destination and pay the man the money they demanded. It was all quick, rapid French that my brain couldn't process so early. The sounds began to swell, began to pound in the early daylight as a frantic, panicked breath pulled its way into my lungs.

Quickly stepping forward, I looked both ways before crossing into the impressive structure, my heart beating dully in my chest and butterflies swarming anxiously in my stomach. I couldn't move once I was inside, the momentarily blast of heat keeping me rooted to my place as I took in the scenery all around me. The arena was proud of their achievements, as well as the country's, and it was something I had expected deep down. But being surrounded by such rich history and being a foreigner left me nerve wrecked and unable to breathe. It came down like an avalanche, crushing its weight onto my shoulders until I forced myself to follow the directions I had once been given.

Merely two minutes into my journey a pair of warm, safe arms wrapped their way around my waist, yanking me off my feet and into a well-toned chest. I could feel the brush of curls against my hair as his lips slowly followed suit. Scruff tinged at my shoulder, breaking through my hoodie-clad exterior as I pulled in a deep breath of resilience. "Clarke, good to see you again. I see you haven't turned off the charm, or learned how to turn it off that is."

He chuckled lowly into my ear, placing a quick kiss against my ear. "Don't be so crass; I merely did it to show you that I was here. If I wanted cliché, I would've just said hello to you like everyone else will."

Clarke's words should've brought comfort, but instead it brought another onslaught of uneasiness. In the dead of winter, underneath a happy sun, I was a foreigner disrupting a breakthrough season. I was someone that nobody knew save for Clarke, and that possibility of being judged and exposed left me quaking ever so slightly, afraid to lose control in front of the one person who had always held me together like glue.

He sensed my discomfort, smirking before he led me towards the locker room. Before he opened the door, he threw one last sentence over his shoulder that both settled my nerves and made them skyrocket.

"It's much different than Buffalo, eh?"


End file.
